


Sword-Shattering Fear Filled Me Overflowing / Grandeur of Godhood No Gaze Should Defile

by beanplague



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, M/M, Qun-Loyal Iron Bull, Templar Inquisitor, hints at female inquisitor pining over cassandra but nothing serious
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 16:33:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17749478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beanplague/pseuds/beanplague
Summary: II. Daffodil Trevelyan, younger of the Trevelyan children, ascends to the position of Inquisitor—but perhaps more importantly, she learns quite a bit about herself.I. Drake Trevelyan, older of the Trevelyan children, ascends to the position of Inquisitor—and from there, he builds upon his identity.





	Sword-Shattering Fear Filled Me Overflowing / Grandeur of Godhood No Gaze Should Defile

_II._

Seeker Cassandra explains the situation with little ambiguity. Trevelyan is a suspect, and the breach in the sky, as far as anyone is concerned, is her doing. Trevelyan barely processes it. Staring through bleary vision and listening through ringing ears, she tries to understand.

Seeing the breach is worse than hearing about it. Beholding the fresh wound in the sky, understanding nothing about it. “You think I did that?” she asks.

She agrees to help, if she even can. She sees the reaction of the people―people who believe, of all things, that Trevelyan might’ve killed the Divine―as she is escorted through crowds of them. She passes a man who looks at her like dirt under his shoe. She passes a woman who covers her child’s eyes. Trevelyan wants to scream―she could not have killed the Divine! Instead, she stares dutifully at the ground as Cassandra pushes her forwards.

There is more screaming the further they journey. Soldiers running from the breach and demons falling from the sky. At one point it is little more than survival instinct that dictates Trevelyan grabbing the helm of the greatsword, and little more than a miracle that she has the strength to fight.

She remembers tactics taught from her brother―and if life did not present another purpose to Trevelyan, she would have become a Templar. She would have given her life away to service the Maker, and yet she stands accused of killing an agent of His faith.

* * *

_I._

The Seeker is a foolish, violent woman, says the man in chains. He argues his faith—profound and undying—and refuses to listen to accusation. He _did not, could not_ kill the Most Holy.

He is incoherent, pitiable. His body aches and his voice is quivering while it is shouting. It is not a condition he would flaunt. The Seeker accuses him and he refutes, the Seeker demands he help the people and he asks if he ever had a choice.

And when she drags him through the streets, intent on gleaning some kind of shame from him, he is unrepentant. Why should he repent? Why should he play the criminal, now, when he is the innocent party?

And he is a _Templar._ A servant to the Chantry and blessed Andraste. A man of faith and a champion of the just. He raves on and on about his service, intent on gaining the ear of the Seeker, who has begun to ignore him as if he were some sort of madman. He merely shouts louder.

When there are demons falling out of the sky to fight the two of them, when she is demanding he relinquish his weapon, when she takes him to meet the apostate elf and the dwarf. _I’m a Templar, I’m a Templar, I’m a Templar._ It becomes a little insufferable.

Still, it’s what he is. It’s what he’s become, giving his life in service to the Maker. He could recite the vows to anyone upon being asked.

And it’s difficult, remembering certain things. That’s what the lyrium does. It infects, it desecrates, it ruins, and yet it fixes. It purifies and makes right. It calls to the user and _demands._ It’s needed. _Templars_ are needed. To reign in mages, to serve the Maker, to earn their right as people. That’s what Trevelyan believes, that’s the idea he will rule with.

(He’s different from _her._ He’s made it a point to be the complete opposite of his _sister_ in every aspect, but you’d have trouble even getting him to admit who _she_ is.)

He could tell you every demand of Andraste to her champions, and yet no one asks. No one demands. He is simply ranting, simply insisting,  _I am a Templar._

* * *

_II._

Trevelyan could not have become a Templar. Something would have intervened. She could not have survived the training of a Templar―not because she is delicate, for she is the opposite, but because she is the opposite of a Templar. Light and power stands ready at her fingers but the option is behind a locked door.

Her brother has a faded burn mark on the side of his neck, and he has spent spent years of his life looking at Trevelyan with the same hatred as the others―but he has no need for murderous accusation. He knows of her peculiarities and he holds her in contempt for them.

(In another world, he has circumvented this moment. In another world, there is a different Trevelyan being sent to the conclave, and he is fully prepared to take Thedas with him in his pursuit of power, of approval. And he will forget any person—any ally, enemy, or sister—who stands in his way.

Thankfully, that world is never wrought.)

* * *

_I._

He remembers the vows. Spoken, whispered, spat. With perfect clarity or in lyrium-addled haze. Littered in the cracks of his life, recited in order to remind. The vows. The chant. _The lyrium._ Purifying as the flame that burned Andraste. Merciful as the sword of Hessarian.

_Maker’s breath,_ he could never forget the vows.

(In another world, there is another Trevelyan who has never had the misfortune of falling into those same vows, who is better because of it. In another world, she pulls apart his image piece by piece, and she learns not to revere a broken idol.

But why should anyone toil in the troubles of other worlds?)

* * *

_II._

The elven apostate, Solas, speaks of the mark like it is a part of Trevelyan, but more than that, he looks at her with the strangest of stares. As if he can see right through her. Trevelyan pays it no mind, but she thinks of it with some resentment. Why must all mages look at her like that?

Varric Tethras speaks in quips and argues playfully with the Seeker. Trevelyan cannot keep up with his humor, but it lightens the heavy weight on the situation. She wonders if that’s his goal.

She meets others―Leliana she has already spoken to as a prisoner, Grand Chancellor Roderick talks of Trevelyan as one talks of a heretic or assassin, and Cullen carries himself like many Templars do. Trevelyan sees the same lyrium veins crowning at his temples. She recognizes them as she did the ones on her brother’s face.

At the remains of the Conclave, she meets the echo of her deeds. She was right, in that she did not kill the Divine, but the memory remains fragmented in her mind. She quakes in her armor, but quickly straightens out. Her strength overpowers her fear.

The pride demon takes the last of her strength, though, and after facing it she collapses. She wakes to reverend Andrastians claiming her a herald of their fate, and upon hearing the title, Daffodil Trevelyan decides she is not.

(Who could claim to know the word of _Andraste?)_

* * *

_I._

Cullen is a good man, a righteous man, but he is a traitor. A former Templar is as good as a dead one, for all the good he can do. Trevelyan regards him with indifference, though he feels that sort of undeniable kinship. It is a weakness he must crush beneath his heel before his time is done.

Leliana is a faithful woman, and calmer than the Seeker, but something about her makes his skin crawl. She looks upon him as if he were nothing, as if she can see straight through his armor and peer into the character of the man beneath. Trevelyan decides, then, that he does not trust her.

Solas is an apostate, and Trevelyan cannot look at him too long without wondering how he has managed to evade Templar intervention. Tethras is humorous, but Trevelyan has little use for mirth in his pursuit of answers. They are minor characters, and they fall into the background when Trevelyan stands ahead of them, controlling the narrative.

They face the Conclave, now, and the memories of its destruction. They face a pride demon and a fade rift, but most importantly, they face the evidence of Trevelyan’s lasting innocence. The Seeker questions him, questions what he saw, but even she attests to the vision when all is over. She calls him the _Herald of Andraste._

And it’s a lovely title, so Drake Trevelyan agrees. Quotes the Maker and blesses his own fate.

(Who could spurn the will of _Andraste?)_

**Author's Note:**

> YO so this was originally two separate fics but i figured they'd work better as a gimmicky singular fic. let's see how it goes.


End file.
